


Last is a Lonely Place to Be

by KetchupEnthusiast



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Late Night Conversations, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-20
Updated: 2020-11-23
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:16:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27635321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KetchupEnthusiast/pseuds/KetchupEnthusiast
Summary: After Pat McAfee and his boys attack, Breezango try to regroup.
Relationships: Tyler Breeze/Fandango
Kudos: 12





	1. 10/21/2020

It had been a very long and eventful night for Breezango, but unfortunately, it had been for all the wrong reasons.

First, the title match that they'd been preparing for against Bobby Fish and Roderick Strong had been changed at the last minute to a match against Oney Lorcan and Danny Burch due to some backstage shenanigans. That had been enough of an unwelcome swerve. But then to make matters worse, just under two months into their title reign and they'd already been dethroned. Not just by Lorcan and Burch, oh no, they'd had help from Pat McAfee... whoever the hell _he_ was.

The ride back home had been quiet and sullen. Even as they got ready for bed, the feeling of disappointment seemed to hang fresh in the air.

Breeze walked into the bedroom after brushing his teeth, holding a heat wrap in his hand. He passed it to Fandango.

“What's this for?”

The blond waved his hand before sitting down on the edge of the bed, “I saw you tweak your knee during the match. I thought that maybe putting one of those on wouldn't be a bad idea.”

Tyler began to rummage through the drawer of his nightstand in search of his expensive eye cream, he could already tell that it was going to be a restless night. He heard the telltale rip of the heat wrap being opened as he applied the cream with two expert swoops of his ring finger.

Fandango shifted closer to him on the bed and Tyler hummed as the older man rested his head on his shoulder. His partner's tattooed arm snaked past him and Fandango began rummaging through the still open drawer. He retrieved a bulky plastic container - a balm that Tyler had imported from back home in Canada every once in awhile. It was something that he started using when he played hockey as a teenager, perfect for tough nights like these.

Tyler swore that the disappointment even made his body hurt more than usual, as if the bruised ego wasn't enough.

He immediately felt the stress begin to drain from him as Fandango's slicked up hands slid between his shoulder blades, moving up over the back of his neck before sliding back down again, working out any kind of knots that he happened to find. If they hadn't felt so heavy-hearted, Tyler probably would have tried to parlay this into a nice roll in the hay to cap off their evening. However, tonight was clearly not the night for that sort of thing.

Eventually, the balm made it's way back into the drawer of the nightstand. Then, just like most nights from the past four and a half years, Tyler waited for Fandango to make himself comfortable amongst his nest of pillows until the brunette stretched his arm out, inviting Tyler to nestle in. Like clockwork, the bedside light clicked off.

The blond rested his head against his partner's warm, sculpted chest and listened to the familiar sound of his heartbeat, waiting for his breathing to become shallow. Tonight, though, his breath didn't even out and that steady _thud, thud, thud_ was suddenly overrun by the low rumbling of Fandango's voice.

“I'm sick of being a nice guy.”

Tyler's eyes opened, unsure of what he'd just heard. He reached across and turned the light back on, then pulled back a little to look at his partner.

“What?”

Fandango sat up, “I said, 'I'm sick of being a nice guy'.”

This felt like such a strange thing to be talking about, especially past midnight, but it also felt important, really important. So Tyler stayed silent, intent on hearing every word.

“We've spent the past five years doing everything we were supposed to do,” Fandango continued, “we stayed in shape, we didn't complain, we never caused any trouble in the locker room. We worked through setback after setback, injury after injury. We wrestled our asses off whenever we were given the opportunity. And for what? So some douchebag who's not even a wrestler could screw us out of our tag titles?”

Breeze could feel the tension radiating from his partner's body as his ranting continued.

“And whenever someone needed help, who were the first people out there? Who had their backs? Us. It was always us. Kushida, Drake, Swerve... we were always there for them, but did they come help us? Did they even bother to check in on us after we lost our belts tonight?”

Fandango had a point, they _hadn't_ checked in or helped at all. As much as Breeze hated to admit it, his partner's ranting was starting to reach a rational conclusion. He had to cut him off at the pass.

“Okay, so doing the right thing hasn't always paid off. What's your new plan then?”

“I'm going to start acting like an asshole, that's what I'm going to do. I'm going to start doing whatever I want, whenever I want. I mean, why not? That seems to be the only way to get ahead in this business.”

Breeze scoffed, “you are not, stop talking nonsense.”

“I am. I really am, Breezy. I'm just...” the brunette's hands gestured in frustration, “I'm at the end of my rope.”

Tyler pulled back a little more and looked his partner straight in the face. The eyes that looked back at him were weary and defeated, but pointedly serious.

“I mean, the last time I acted like an asshole, it worked out pretty well,” Fandango shrugged.

This piqued Tyler's interest, “Oh yeah? What happened?”

“I clotheslined Goldust in the middle of a match and ended up with the best thing that's ever happened to me.”

Fandango reached across to grab hold of Tyler's hand, squeezing it for emphasis. The blond moved in closer before he began to reply.

“Just because it worked out then, doesn't mean it's going to work out now. You don't have to start acting out, not just yet anyway. We're going to find a way through this, one without 'assholery'.”

Fandango made a displeased noise at this, but said nothing, so Tyler continued.

“I'm going to talk to Regal tomorrow about a rematch.”

“I'm going to go with you.”

“No, you're not. If you see that McCafé guy, I just know you're going to punch him in the face.”

Fandango snorted, “McCafé.”

“Besides, I'm probably going to talk to Regal on a Zoom call or something...”

Tyler paused, he pulled Fandango's face close and kissed him, then looked at him as earnestly as he possibly could.

“'Dango, we're going to bounce back from this, we always do. We're going to get another shot at what should still be ours, okay? Without becoming assholes.”

Fandango looked at him skeptically. For Breeze's sake, he was willing to believe, at least for a little while longer.

“Now, let's get some sleep,” the blond said, “I just want this horrible night to be over already.”

Fandango knew that tone, it meant the subject was closed as far as Tyler was concerned. Again, the brunette laid back into the pillows and looked down at Tyler as he snuggled in close, before he turned off the bedside light. He placed a kiss on top of his partner's head then closed his eyes. There was a long beat of silence, but apparently, Fandango had just one more thing to say...

“At least we got to have sex with the belts on before we lost them.”

Breeze was silent for a moment, but then openly cackled into his partner's chest, “Oh my god, you really are the worst.”


	2. 11/11/2020

_One, two. One, two. One, two._

There was Fandango, pacing the hallway, concentrating on his feet and the weathered tiles beneath them. The counting was something left over from his years of training as a dancer, a tick that still popped up during times of excess stress, such as this evening. _Focus on your counts, watch your footwork_ – mantras that had been drilled into his head ad nauseam. It provided him with a welcome distraction, something to think about besides the overwhelming sense of dread that currently consumed him.

A plethora of people walked by – other wrestlers, sound technicians, office personnel – Fandango couldn't be bothered with any of them. No eye contact, no small talk, he was completely preoccupied.

Behind one of the corridor's numerous doors, Tyler Breeze was being examined by NXT's medical staff, a direct result of being punted by Pat McAfee. Fandango hadn't watched the footage back yet, he probably never would, but he'd heard the groan of pain from Tyler as the kick connected and the heavy thud of his partner's body hitting the floor as he unceremoniously slid off of the announcer's table. His stomach turned as he thought about it, even now.

The blond had been adamant about going into the exam room alone. He'd said something about how having the dancer in there would just “stress him out”. If Fandango hadn't been so anxious, he probably would have felt insulted. As it was, he just wanted to know that Tyler was okay. He tried to decipher the murmurs from behind the exam room door, but was coming up empty-handed (or rather, empty-eared).

A second set of footsteps rapidly approached from behind and the brunette spun around quickly, readying himself for another attack from McAfee or one of his boys. He relaxed when he saw that it was just Drake Maverick, who looked rather worse for wear himself.

“How is he, any word?”

“I don't know, they haven't told me anything yet.”

A thought manifested itself from the back of the dancer's mind.

“Just curious, why'd you come out to help us tonight?”

Drake shrugged, “Well, they beat the hell out of Killian and me last week, that was enough of a reason. Besides, you two had my back during that fiasco with Escobar and his goons a few months ago, figured it was time that I repaid the favor.”

Fandango nodded, that made sense. A silence fell between them, long and awkward, so the brunette began to pace the hallway once more.

_One, two. One, two. One, two._

“They've had him in there for quite a long time, haven't they?”

Fandango's pacing halted, his face puckered in on itself. Almost immediately, Drake realized his mistake.

“Not helping, man.”

“Sorry, sorry,” the smaller wrestler put his hands up.

Truth be told, as much as Fandango appreciated the concern, he really didn't feel like being around other people at the moment. The guilt about Breeze getting seriously hurt was eating him up inside. Tyler was definitely tougher than most people gave him credit for and he could obviously handle himself, but Fandango still felt responsible for keeping the model safe – he was older, he was bigger, he was more experienced. He was the protector, it was just the role that he'd naturally fallen into once they'd started teaming. Things like this weren't supposed to happen to Tyler, not on his watch.

“Not to sound ungrateful, Drake, but I kind of want to be alone right now.”

The Brit nodded, “let me know when you hear anything?”

“Sure,” Fandango then watched him turn and walk away down the corridor.

The pacing wasn't taking his mind off of things the way it usually did, so the dancer leaned back against the wall opposite the exam room. His eyes drilled into the wood of the door, as if he could will it to open faster if he just stared at it hard enough. After a while, he realized that wasn't helping, either. So, he closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the wall clock, ticking away steadily several feet above his head.

_One, two. One, two. One, two._

Suddenly, the door opened and Fandango just about jumped out of his skin as he pushed off of the wall. Tyler skulked out with a bag of ice pressed against his cheek, looking tired and miserable.

“Well?”

“Facial bruising,” Tyler waved a hand in the general area of his visage where the discoloration had already started to bloom. His lip was split, and the underside of his right eye was beginning to swell, “a little bit of rib pain because of the fall to the floor. Nothing serious, nothing's broken, nothing's fractured. They checked me for signs of a concussion, it looks like I'm all clear.”

Fandango breathed out a sigh of relief. He'd expected the worst – shattered eye socket, missing teeth, a broken nose – but Breeze had come out of it relatively unscathed.

“I wanna get out of here before any of the uggos see my face,” Tyler murmured, lowering his head self-consciously. He didn't even wait for a response, just turned and began speed-walking toward the parking lot.

Fandango quickly followed, gathering their luggage from the spot where he'd left it at the end of the hall. Tyler climbed into the passenger seat, keeping his head low, as Fandango loaded their suitcases into the trunk before getting behind the wheel and beginning the silent trek home.

Once they arrived, Tyler made a beeline for the shower while Fandango was left to unload the bags. He tapped out a quick text to Drake to let him know that Tyler was okay, then began getting ready for bed. The blond eventually emerged from the bathroom and immediately crawled under the covers, pulling them up around him until just his eyes were visible. He clearly didn't want anyone looking at his face, not even his partner. Something about that made Fandango's heart tighten in his chest.

The dancer hovered awkwardly at bedside and Tyler cracked open his un-bruised eye, peering at him.

“What?” he grumbled.

“I just... do you want me to go sleep in the guest room? Because you seem like you want some spa-”

“'Dango, shut up and get into bed,” Tyler clearly wasn't having anyone's nonsense, not even his partner's, not after the night he'd just had.

Fandango slid in beside him, “Do you need ice or something for your face?”

That didn't even earn the distinction of a verbal response, just a glare from the blond's mismatched eyes.

Defeated, the brunette began the process of fluffing the pile of pillows behind him. Instinctively, he outstretched his arm for Tyler to snuggle in, then realized that wasn't going to happen tonight. The bedside light clicked off.

In the inky blue darkness of the bedroom, Fandango stared at the ceiling, a restless mess. He had so many thoughts running through his head that it was hard to sort them all out: how it seemed like they'd had the match won. Drake coming out to help them. The horrible sound of pain that Tyler made as Pat's foot hit his face. The night spent in the corridor, counting his footsteps, mired in anxiety. The quiet drive home. They all whizzed by in his mind, one after another after another, like some sort of poorly edited clip show.

Like a moth to a flame, his mind kept circling back to that conversation from several weeks ago, the one where Fandango had told Breeze that being an asshole was the only way to get ahead in the wrestling business. After tonight, that idea had crystallized in Fandango's psyche. He knew that Tyler had seemingly closed the case on the matter, but after having his gorgeous face defiled, Fandango wondered if perhaps the topic would reopen for discussion. That would be a bridge to cross in the coming days, though, as he definitely wasn't going to make any headway with Tyler tonight.

Eventually, the brunette's eyes closed and he willed the thoughts out of his mind. Instead, he shifted his focus to the only anchor he seemed to have right now: the steady cadence of his partner's breathing.

_One, two. One, two. One, two._


End file.
